


The Last Good Man in Ketterdam

by randomsquare



Category: Grishaverse - Fandom, Six of Crows Series - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: F/M, Grishaverse Big Bang 2019, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:21:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22033978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomsquare/pseuds/randomsquare
Summary: Kaz Brekker is the self-appointed King of the Barrel, and it’s good to be King. With his ill-gotten gains from the Van Eck job he’s doubled the size of the Crow Club, and his exclusive new gambling parlor in The Lid is two weeks from opening. But when a series of deadly fires strike in the heart of The Lid’s entertainment district, essentially wiping out half his competitors, Kaz finds himself implicated. Now he has the Stadwatch and half the gangs in Ketterdam after him. Can Kaz prove his innocence and find the culprit before his latest venture goes up in smoke?Written for the Grishaverse Big Bang 2019
Relationships: Jesper Fahey/Wylan Van Eck, Kaz Brekker/Inej Ghafa
Comments: 16
Kudos: 70
Collections: Grishaverse Big Bang 2019





	1. The Fire at the Opera

Flames still licked the sky as Kaz found a suitable perch across the canal from the Herengracht Opera House. Or what was left of it. 

Fires weren’t uncommon. They were inevitable in a city as crowded and wild as Ketterdam. All it took was a little stupidity. A candle left burning too close to a pair of drapes. A log falling from the fireplace out onto the rug. One poorly aimed firework, and an entire row of houses could be lost.

But Kaz had seen nothing quite like this.

The canal below was a swirl of people, limbs thrashing and heads bobbing in the black water. They’d thrown themselves from the roof of the opera house to escape the inferno, like rats from a sinking ship. Merchers, diplomats, and tourists alike, all still dressed in their evening finery. 

Those that could swim were making for the opposite bank, or already lying bedraggled out on the cobblestones. The rest clutched to pylons and each other, awaiting rescue. 

The path to the harbor was blocked by Stadwatch officers, their faces ashen and their expressions likewise. They formed a chain of purple across the entrance to every bridge along the Stave, herding curious onlookers back into the relative safety of the Barrel.

Only the fire brigade stood on the other side, a furious line of men hauling buckets back and forth from the canal. 

It wouldn’t help.

The opera house was as good as gone, right along with anyone who’d been unlucky enough to still be trapped inside.

At once, Kaz found his attention drawn to the edge of the roof, as a new figure pulled himself up from the balcony below. A fellow spectator. His movements weren’t graceful, nor particularly silent, his lanky frame not especially suited to climbing.

At last, with a grunt of effort the man hauled himself up the rest of the way, before rolling onto his back against the tiles, breathing hard.

“Inej always made it look so easy,” the figure complained, rising slowly to his feet.

Kaz bit back a smile. 

“Jes,” he nodded, as the sharpshooter came to stand beside him.

Even the best part of a year living in the biggest house on the Geldstraat hadn’t completely dampened Jesper’s sartorial flair. His jacket might’ve been a sedate black, but the waistcoat underneath was a typically garish orange. A tighter fit than Kaz remembered. All that rich mercher food must’ve finally caught up with him.

Jesper leaned out over the edge and gave a low whistle. “Well, you have to hand it to them. They weren’t bluffing.”

The Lucky Star had been the first. One of the city’s finest gambling halls, it had been reduced to little more than a sad pile of cinders. Unfortunate, but no one had died, unless you counted a cantankerous, elderly cat, which liked to nap on the card tables after hours. But everyone supposed it had been an accident, at least until the letter arrived addressed to Maximilian Nouwen, the new captain of the Stadwatch.

The contents of the letter had never been officially disclosed, but as with all things in Ketterdam, that didn’t mean it wasn’t common knowledge by the next afternoon.

It was, in essence, a ransom letter. A shakedown. The scene at the Lucky Star was simply a demonstration. Those responsible, who declined to introduce themselves, would continue to rain down destruction on Ketterdam’s entertainment district until their demands were met.

It was a bold scheme. Kaz could admit as much. Why limit yourself to just one man, when you can hold an entire city to ransom? 

Naturally, after a number of furious meetings with the Merchant Council, Captain Nouwen declined to pay. Just an opportunistic thief looking to profit from an unfortunate accident, was his view. He ran a Kerch flag from his office window for the whole square to see, a staunch signal of his refusal.

The next night, just before dawn, the Pearl Palace was razed to the waterline. 

The Herengracht made three. 

“No,” Kaz replied at last. “They aren’t bluffing.”

Ash had begun to drift down like snowflakes, catching in his hair, and collecting in the rim of Jesper’s hat. 

“Onkel Felix has already approached Wylan about borrowing some of the house guards for extra security,” Jesper admitted, brushing off his shoulders. “People are getting nervous.”

Kaz’s laugh was bitter. “They should be. The Stadwatch don’t have a single lead.”

“Are _you_ nervous, Kaz? You’ve got that new place on the Wijnstraat…”

The Siren’s Call. Just two bridges down the Stave, and a mere two weeks from opening. A respectable sort of place. He’d sunk a considerable amount of his remaining fortune into the refurbishment. And nothing put a dampener on a new business venture quite like it all going up in smoke. 

Even if his premises were spared, he still needed to break even. For that he needed fat, happy pigeons wandering in off the docks, bulging purses ready to pluck. That meant no more fires in the Lid, driving away tourist boats and scaring up the Stadwatch. 

“You know me, Jesper,” Kaz shrugged, brushing the ash from his hair with a gloved hand. “I don’t get nervous, I get even.”

“Could be dangerous.”

Jesper missed it, he knew. The thrill of the fight. Life in the Barrel wasn’t easy, but it never lacked for excitement. But even though Kaz had always felt better about going into battle with Jesper’s revolvers covering his back, he knew he wouldn’t ask him to. 

Fortunately, sharpshooting wasn’t Jesper’s only skill. 

“I don’t suppose you’ve seen any new Grisha in the city lately?”

Jesper’s eyes narrowed, and Kaz knew he took it personally. “An Inferni? Really?”

“Just considering all the angles. It’s probably the first thing the Stadwatch checked up on. But after what happened with the Shu, I figure any rogue Grisha are lying low, probably traveling under false papers.”

“You want me to talk to Guus.”

Guus was the best in the business, his forgeries were often more convincing than the real thing. If a rogue Inferni was sheltering in Ketterdam looking for counterfeit documents, Guus’s workshop would be a logical destination. He didn’t ask questions, and unlike most of his contemporaries, he charged a fair price. Luckily for Jesper, he also had a real soft spot for Zemeni currant cake.

“I want you to talk to Guus,” Kaz confirmed.

“You do know I don’t work for you anymore, right?” Jesper asked, with a sardonic lift of one eyebrow.

He liked to think so. But the Crow and Cup which still graced his forearm said otherwise, and Kaz wasn’t above leaning on him a little.

“You wouldn’t be doing this for me,” Kaz replied demurely. “You’d be doing it for them,” he said, waving an arm to encompass the bedraggled masses below. “Your friends. Your neighbors. Your city.”

“Your bottom line?” Jesper cut in.

Kaz suppressed a grin. “If that’s what helps you sleep better at night, Jesper.”

“So what’re you going to do?” Jesper asked, arms crossing over his chest, already resigned to his role.

“Me? I’m going to get a closer look at those ransom notes.” 

♠ 


	2. The Stadhall

The first ransom note had been slipped under Nouwen’s office door in the middle of the afternoon, when the corridors were packed with officials going about their day. The second was delivered the morning after the Pearl Palace fire, tucked in amongst the morning post.

Now the third had been discovered inside Nouwen’s daily delivery of eggs, left at the servant’s entrance to the home the Captain shared with his wife and two young daughters on the Zelverstraat.

The threat was implied. The harder the Stadwatch and the Merchant Council dug in their heels, the faster things would escalate.

If Kaz’s own holdings weren’t in jeopardy, he might’ve appreciated the artistry involved. The simplicity of the con, so elegantly executed. It didn’t take a genius to come up with a scheme like that, but it took a steady hand. A certain level of ambition, which he might call enterprising, and Inej might call reckless.

 _Saints,_ he even missed her lectures.

He could’ve used her help to break into the Stadhall, but he’d had to settle for Anika instead, who’d complained all the while. 

“Don’t you have a spider for this?” Anika huffed, her boots sliding across the wet roof tiles with no discernable grace. Even Kaz, with his limp, was making better progress. “Where’s Roeder?”

“Where I told him to be. You remembered the rope?”

She patted her pockets with mock panic, and then shot Kaz a level look as she started to pull the cord from her sleeve like an East Stave magician.

“Good,” Kaz said gruffly, reaching over to take the end from her. He secured it to the drainpipe with a complex knot. 

Captain Maximillian Nouwen was a family man. He prided himself on it. It might’ve even cost him a promotion or two, before his predecessor had seen fit to tangle with _jurda parem_ and inadvertently cleared the path to the top job. He didn’t bring his work home. Which meant the ransom letters were still in his office, under lock and key.

Locks and keys presented no real obstacle. Kaz had never met a safe he couldn’t crack, nor a locked door he couldn’t coax open. But after the first letter had arrived, they’d beefed up security around the Stadhall. Regular patrols. A man standing guard outside Nouwen's office door at every hour of the day and night. 

His window wasn’t a viable alternative either, looking out onto the square as it did. There was no way they’d be able to break in unnoticed. 

Unless, of course, there was something more interesting to notice.

The bells of the Church of Barter began to chime. One. Two. Three. On the fourth chime, just as they’d planned, the sky above Ghezen’s hand erupted into a deafening fury of sparks.

Fireworks.

As far as diversions went, it wasn’t subtle. But Rotty had left a sizable stockpile behind at the Slat after he’d retired with his share from the Van Eck job, and it seemed a shame to let them go to waste. 

Kaz tied the other end of the rope to Anika’s belt, giving it an experimental tug. Good enough.

“No mourners,” he shouted above the din, before pushing her off the roof.

She dangled for a moment like a worm at the end of a hook, but after a small shake of her head and a rude gesture directed Kaz’s way, she seemed to regain her bearings. She pulled herself onto the window ledge and prised the window open with a metal bar she’d brought along for the purpose. 

Nouwen’s window was narrow, too narrow for Kaz’s frame. But Anika’s tiny shoulders slipped through easily enough, disappearing from view.

The bells chimed for the final time, but the fireworks continued, brilliant starbursts of green and orange, drawing focus away from the Government Quarter. 

He only hoped Roeder wouldn’t run out of fuses to light for as long as it took for them to find what they needed.

At last, Anika’s blond head poked outside the window, a sheaf of papers held aloft in triumph. 

Oh, Nouwen. Bested by a teenage thief with tiny shoulders. 

He snatched the letters from her grasp before she’d even finished climbing back up, scanning their contents as best as he could by the alternating glow of Roeder’s pyrotechnics.

The paper they’d used was unremarkable. Available anywhere. The seal was standard red candle wax and revealed no point of origin. But the script was interesting. Purposefully untidy, Kaz thought. As if the sender had taken pains to conceal their handwriting. As if it might be otherwise recognized. It was something Kaz would have to puzzle over later.

But most interesting of all, were the ransom demands.

Somehow, the exact details hadn’t filtered through into the Barrel, and Kaz’s sources had seen fit to speculate. A king’s ransom, they’d said. 100 million kruge. Rather more than the Merchant Council would ever dream of parting with. 

But that isn’t exactly what the letters demanded. 

“Kaz.” He looked up from the paper to see Anika pointing out across the rooftops, towards the Church of Barter. A starburst of red sparks faded into smoke.

A warning. Roeder was running out of fireworks.

He folded the papers back over, and handed them back to Anika. “Hurry.”

She rolled her eyes again, but took them, tucking them inside her jacket before she lowered herself back down. 

Kaz’s gaze flicked back to the Church of Barter. The rockets were firing less frequently now. Every fifteen seconds. Twenty. Thirty. A minute. Then everything was silent, and he knew their diversion was spent.

He tugged at the rope, at first gently, and then more desperately.

_How long could it take to simply put them back where she found them?_

Then the light from Nouwen’s window came on, and Kaz froze.

There were no immediate shouts of alarm, no telling gunshots. He had to hope Anika had been fast enough to find a desk or closet to shelter behind. But with the window open and Anika still tied to her guideline, discovery was inevitable.

There were three options available to him. Just three. Cut the rope, and leave Anika to fend for herself. Leave the rope, and hope no one noticed it before Anika got out. Or the third option. The stupid option. 

With one last glance over the side of the roof to make sure Anika wasn’t on her way up, Kaz let out a breath and reached under his coat. They’d tried the stealthy approach. Sometimes, the only way out was with a bang.

Pulling the pin with his teeth, Kaz tossed the grenade into the inner courtyard. It landed in a decorative shrubbery, just in time for the entire thing to be scorched from existence with a deafening boom. Windows shattered. Smoke began to pour into the night sky. And the rope tied to the drainpipe behind him started to rattle as his lieutenant made her timely escape. 

♠


	3. King of the Barrel

In a city of contested territory and divided loyalties, breakfast at the Kooperom was something everyone could agree on. Gangs had gone to war over less, but these days it served as one of the few truly neutral places in Ketterdam, with a clientele that included every rank and station.

Kaz wasn’t quite sure when waffles had become customary the morning after a job, but he suspected Nina had had something to do with it. Even now, with the Heartrender long gone, the other Dregs still delighted in observing the ritual, purses stuffed with ill-gotten gains that allowed them to eat and drink their fill.

The crowd was as diverse as ever, Kaz noted as he stepped inside, Anika and Pim at his back. There was a healthy mix of locals and bleary-eyed tourists, still paying for the previous night’s excesses. A few Black Tips held court by the window, swapping friendly insults with a cluster of Stadwatch in their purple uniforms, fresh off the night shift. He could even pick out a few merchers in their staid black, lured South with the promise of the best eggs in the city.

Yet even after they took a seat at their usual booth, Kaz couldn’t help but notice the empty tables, no sign of the usual line snaking out onto the cobbles. Foot traffic on the Staves was suffering in the aftermath of the Herengracht fire, and who could blame them? 

His gaze snagged on a headline, as a woman in a neighboring booth disappeared behind her newspaper.

_Hundreds Have Not Been Accounted For_

Pim followed his gaze, nodding his head at the headline. “Still people alive, buried under all the burned ones, I heard.”

Anika glared at Pim, loaded fork poised halfway to her lips. “Do you have to discuss this _now_ ? I’ve been looking forward to this for _weeks._ ” 

Kaz concurred. He could feel his flesh start to crawl, old memories fighting to the surface. He frowned down at his plate, pushing it away from him.

“You finish it,” he said to Pim, fighting the urge to throw up. “I’m not hungry.”

If Pim recognized the moment of weakness for what it was, he didn’t comment on it. He just piled his own plate higher, tucking in with abandon. At least someone still had their appetite.

Kaz settled instead for spiriting an abandoned newspaper off a neighboring table, and reading beyond the sensational headlines. The Herengracht fire filled up the first five pages alone, such was the scale of it. Even a small explosion at the Stadhall barely rated a mention. So this blackmailer had finally become a killer, many times over. 

It was certainly an escalation. Before now, the only casualties had been economic, unless you counted the cat. Kaz thought back to the ransom letters, and their rather interesting demands.

The first letter was short. To the point. And Kaz could well understand why Nouwen had fought so hard to keep the contents secret.

_A simple exchange._

_You will resign your post._

_Or The Lucky Star will be the first of many._

_Your choice._

He couldn’t fault Nouwen for refusing the demands. It was not in the Kerch character to bend. But perhaps after the fire at the Pearl Palace, he’d started to sweat. 

_I warned you._

_Did you think I was making empty threats?_

_Resign or watch your city burn._

The Herengracht marked a turning point. Both in the lengths the blackmailer was willing to go, and how little patience remained. 

_Does your pride give you comfort? Does it drown out their screams?_

_You know what I want._

If Nouwen hadn’t entertained the idea of resigning before, he would certainly be giving it due consideration now. And if the contents of the notes ever got out, well, there were any number of ambitious young upstarts in the Stadwatch who would be only too happy to force him into it.

What puzzled Kaz, were the blackmailer’s true intentions. Nouwen had enjoyed a storied career, sending more than his fair share to the gallows, or to rot in Hellgate. It was not impossible this was a type of revenge. But why stop at resignation? Why not demand the man kill himself? Release prisoners? Pay reparations? What could possibly be gained from having Nouwen step down as the head of the Stadwatch?

It would demonstrate a certain amount of power, that was true. For some men, that was a drug all its own. To watch Nouwen bow to the pressure might slake the thirst of anyone with a lust for inflicting humiliation. 

And it was true every criminal in the city had a small stake in seeing the Stadwatch in an uproar. Even the decision itself would be divisive, once the details emerged. 

There would be those who would argue that the safety of Ketterdam’s citizens and visitors was paramount, that Nouwen had no choice but to resign if he was serious about stopping the fires, pride be damned. The more ambitious would champion this view, if only to make more room at the top. But Kaz knew there were more than a few stubborn personalities within the ranks. Stalwart old watch captains who would consider any concessions to a murderous madman tantamount to treason.

It was a moral quandary that would tear the Stadwatch asunder, and _that_ , Kaz suspected, was the true motive. If only he could discover its architect.

By the time he’d turned all this over in his mind, Pim had already devoured both plates of waffles and was glancing meaningfully at Anika’s untouched eggs. 

“Let her be,” Kaz warned him, folding over his newspaper. Anika shot him what might’ve been a grateful look, but his attention was quickly diverted by the pint’s worth of beer that came hurtling in his direction.

Even turning at the last second, he still found himself comprehensively covered, the amber liquid raining down upon half his face, and seeping into his clothes.

He stood up immediately, grasping for his cane, but Pim already had the little wretch by the scruff of the neck. She was a young girl, skinny, with a shiny new Razorgull tattoo branded against her neck. A new recruit looking to make a name for herself.

She was spitting and snarling like a wildcat, feet kicking frantically, but Pim’s grip was firm.

Anika already had a knife out, but Kaz shook his head, and she lowered it to her side. He couldn’t help but notice the silence. But for the girl’s struggling, the entire restaurant was still, as if holding its breath. Every eye was either trained in their direction, or studiously _not_ trained in their direction.

Kaz’s response mattered.

He didn’t rush it. He picked up the cloth napkin from the table, and dabbed at his neck, then his brow. He ran a gloved hand through his hair, settling it carefully back into place. Then at last he took up his cane, and looked into the wretch’s eyes.

“Do you have a name, little wretch?”

She didn’t answer, just tried spitting in this direction. Her trajectory fell short, and Kaz thought that a very apt metaphor for the girl’s efforts to date.

“No? Well, you look like a Razorgull to me. Newly hatched. Perhaps your lieutenant hasn’t warned you about me yet. They call me Dirtyhands. Do you know why?”

He lifted one of his hands, encased in leather, and wiggled the fingers slightly. The girl visibly blanched.

“They say…” She was finally starting to sound frightened, her nerve deserting her. “They say you set them fires.” 

Kaz had to admit, that gave him pause. He didn’t mind playing at the villain. Most of the time, he couldn’t even be sure it was an act. But a loaded accusation like that was bad for business.

Conscious of his audience, he affected nonchalance. “They say a lot of things about me. But you know what they all agree on?”

The girl was silent until Pim gave her a little shake. “Wha..what?”

“I’m rich. And how I stay that way is I keep the boats flooding into Fifth Harbor. You and your little friends think I’d drive away pigeons, and put my own business in jeopardy? Well, no one ever accused the Razorgulls of being great thinkers...”

The girl was clearly Barrel born, and thick to boot. He couldn’t guarantee that logic would prevail in this instance, but at least he’d sent a message. He could only hope anyone listening in would hear it. 

“Now my associate here,” Kaz said, motioning at Pim, “is going to escort you back to the Jam Tart House. Have a word with Rik.”

Rik was the Razorgull’s most senior lieutenant. He was no fan of Kaz’s, but he’d come up through the ranks when there was still such a thing as honor among thieves. He wouldn’t risk inciting a gang war because one of his fledglings couldn’t control her temper.

Pim didn’t look thrilled with his new assignment, but dipped his head in acknowledgment. He set the girl down, but kept a beefy hand still fastened to her collar. “C’mon, wretch,” he said, pointing them both towards the door. 

Kaz nodded at Anika. “Go with him. I don’t want Rik getting any ideas.”

She looked down forlornly at her plate of eggs, still untouched. Kaz said nothing. He didn’t need to. One raised eyebrow was enough to get her on her feet, knife tucked securely back inside her sleeve.

“And Anika?” He waited until his lieutenant met his gaze. “Make sure you ask our new friend who’s been telling her tales about me. Make sure you ask _nicely._ ” 

♠

Kaz didn’t leave immediately. In fact, he sat back down and ordered a fresh pot of coffee, taking his time with it. It wouldn’t do to appear rattled. 

No, he waited until the whispering and sideways glances lapsed back into ordinary conversation, when his fracas with the Razorgull girl became nothing but an unremarkable footnote in an otherwise typical morning in Ketterdam. 

Even his walk back to the Slat was meandering. Unhurried. He didn’t let the facade drop for a moment, not until he was back in his attic rooms with a scrubbing brush, washing up for the second time that day.

He hadn’t wanted to admit it to himself, but the Razorgull girl’s accusation had unnerved him. If street rats in the Barrel were already using his name in connection with the fires, how long before the Stadwatch were at his door? Or the other gangs?

All the more reason to find the real culprit, and soon.

His vigor renewed, Kaz settled himself in his office, intending to piece out the problem in isolation. Which might’ve worked, if he hadn’t sensed a loitering presence.

“What business?”

If Roeder thought he could linger unnoticed in his doorway, he was sorely mistaken. Inej might’ve taken him under her wing and taught him a few tricks of her trade, but he would never possess her talent for invisibility. 

Roeder cleared his throat, face flushing a little as he stepped inside Kaz’s office, and closed the door. By design, there was no second chair. The last thing Kaz wanted was for his visitors to set themselves at ease. Instead Roeder stood, and launched into his latest report.

Kaz half-listened, sorting through a pile of correspondence on his desk. 

“-broke his fingers. She was pretty sure you wouldn’t mind-”

Kaz opened a letter from the Kerch Mutual Assurance Society, grimacing as he read the contents. They were asking for a greater share of his profits. Hardly surprising, given the circumstances, but it was another unforeseen expense.

“-he’s been at the gin again. They dismissed him. Only kicked up a bit of a fuss-” Kaz held up a hand to stop him.

“Any word on the Opera House? Did the fire brigade release an updated figure?”

Roeder hesitated. “They’re still digging through the ashes. But perhaps... seventy?”

 _Seventy._ Saints.

“I’d like you to stake out Nouwen’s house.”

“ _Captain_ Nouwen’s house?” Roeder clarified. “What am I looking for?”

“Any sign of our blackmailer. Or our fire raiser. If they are indeed the same person.”

“You think they’d be stupid enough to go back to his house?”

Kaz wasn’t sure. He hadn’t seen a lot of slip-ups so far. 

“Maybe not, but Nouwen is definitely someone they have their eye on. It wouldn’t hurt for us to do the same.” 

He considered mentioning Nouwen’s starring role in the ransom letters, but something made him hold his tongue. It was, for now, carefully guarded knowledge. Which meant it was valuable.

Roeder had proven better than most at gathering secrets, but Kaz was not yet convinced of his ability to keep him. The man still had debts, and a sweetheart he liked to think Kaz didn’t know about. Things like that could compromise even the most loyal of souls, given the right leverage.

But if Roeder sensed Kaz wasn’t being entirely forthright with him, he didn’t argue. He just gave a steady nod, and made for the door.

“Oh, and Roeder?”

His spider paused at the threshold. “Nice job with the fireworks.” 

It was rare praise, rare enough to leave him looking unsettled as he left. Which did nothing to reassure Keeg when he walked in a few moments later, brandishing a letter with a ruby red seal, and a small package tied up in wax paper.

“What’s wrong with him?” Keeg asked, jamming a burly thumb in the direction Roeder had disappeared.

Kaz didn’t bother answering, just snatched the letter from his hand, and settled back into his chair. Slicing open the seal, he unfurled the page and scanned the text.

“From Jesper?” Keeg asked eagerly, not entirely able to keep his affection for the sharpshooter off his face. “Anything interesting?”

Swallowing back his disappointment, Kaz screwed the paper into a ball and tossed it into the open fire. “Not at all. But you can keep the package. It’s Zemeni currant cake. He had some to spare.”

♠


	4. The Lid

If the Barrel was where one went to disappear, then the Lid was where one came to be seen. The pigeons who walked the cobbled streets didn’t need costumes or confidence games to convince them to part with their money. They had plenty to spare. 

Kaz had always dreamed of a foothold on the Wijnstraat, between the theaters and bookshops, the arcades and taverns. The Siren’s Call was the culmination of that dream. 

He made a point of checking on the renovations personally, ensuring the men he’d hired weren’t cutting corners or deliberately lagging. It helped to arrive unannounced, at any time of day. They’d learned to expect it, but there was still a flurry of whispered curses and hurried stowing of flasks when Kaz stepped through from the street.

His foreman, a large Zemeni man named Reyer, was the only one who looked remotely pleased to see him.

“Brekker,” he said with a small incline of his head. “What business?” 

“Reyer,” Kaz returned, leaning across to shake the man’s hand. “I was just passing. Thought I might see if the wood for those banisters turned up yet.”

In its former life, the building had been a tavern, driven broke by a proprietor who’d been more interested in drinking away his profits than paying his creditors. Once a favored watering hole of the fashionable set, it had fallen into a sad state of disrepair in recent years.

Kaz meant to return her to her former glory.

“They arrived this morning,” Reyer answered, sweeping a hand towards a large shape by the back wall, obscured by a canvas sheet. “Should do the trick.”

“And we’re still on track for the end of the month?”

Reyer grimaced. “Could be. Only young Timothy up and quit yesterday. So we’ll be needing a new man to go over the cornices. I’d do it myself…” he frowned, slapping his enlarged belly, “... but I’m not as good on the ladder as I used to be.”

“I’ll find someone,” Kaz promised. “Any other problems?”

“Just the usual,” Reyer muttered. “Rats and rising damp. This city…”

“I’ll say a prayer to Sankta Alina for you,” Kaz offered sardonically. “Send a little sunshine your way. And as for the rats-”

But before he could offer his advice, a child appeared in the doorway. 

“Mister Brekker, sir.” He was bent over double, his breathing labored, but even then Kaz recognized him. 

He couldn’t be more than seven years old, and a small seven at that, but he’d been working as a shoe-shine boy on the streets of Ketterdam since he was old enough to hold a brush. Sander was the name he went by. He was too young to be initiated, but Kaz kept an eye on him. Let him hole up in the Slat during the worst of the winter storms. Scared the older boys off his corner when they got too territorial. A boy like that could be useful. A boy like that overheard all kinds of things he shouldn’t.

One of the laborers tossed the boy his flask, and he downed the contents gratefully, barely wincing as the spirits burned his throat. He lobbed the flask back and turned again to Kaz, somewhat restored.

“Mister Brekker, it’s-” The boy glanced warily at the other men, all frozen in ready anticipation.

“Back to work!” Reyer called, clapping his hands together with renewed authority. “You lot aren’t paid to stand around all day. And where are my paint brushes?”

Shooting the foreman an approving look, Kaz let himself draw closer to the boy. “It’s what, Sander?”

“It’s your spider, sir.”

Kaz felt his stomach clench. “The Wraith?”

The boy shook his head. “Roeder. He’s shot. The Liddies, they’re-”

“Where is he?” An urgent wave to Reyer later, and they were already outside on the cobbles, Sander struggling to keep up beside him.

“They said they were taking him back to the Slat. She told me to get you.”

“You saw him?” Kaz asked, dodging past a group of tourists. “How bad?”

The child looked up then, failing to disguise the quaver in his voice. “It’s bad, sir.”

♠

They stowed aboard a browboat for most of the trip back down into the Barrel, but Kaz’s leg was still in agony by the time he huffed up the front steps to the Slat. But when he saw the prone body lying in the entrance hall, painting the floorboards red with blood, that was all forgotten.

“What happened?” he demanded, falling to his knees beside Anika. She was busy tearing strips from her ruined shirt, while onlookers fluttered around uselessly.

“The Liddies happened,” Anika snarled through gritted teeth. “It’s not just the Razorgulls. Every little street urchin in the Barrel is saying we burned down the Herengracht.” 

The Liddies had owned the Pearl Palace. It stood to reason they would be looking for swift retribution wherever they could find it.

“We have to stop the bleeding,” Anika said, voice catching as she pressed a wad of fabric against the wound. 

The bullet had torn right through the abdomen and left no small amount of destruction in its wake. The bandages were soaked through in minutes, and Kaz surrendered his own jacket next.

He was glad Anika was the one holding Roeder’s insides in. Even the sight of the sodden fabric made Kaz’s head swim and the bile rise in his throat.

“He needs a medik!” Sander cried from somewhere nearby.

He needed rather more than that, Kaz feared. He’d already lost so much blood. And even if they could staunch the bleeding, there was no telling what damage the bullet had inflicted internally. Kaz could stitch a cut closed as well as anyone with a passing familiarity with violence, but he couldn’t make a man’s spleen whole again.

That required a whole other set of skills. 

“The Van Eck mansion,” Kaz rasped, before clearing his throat. “Jesper,” he continued louder, a few heads finally turning his way. “They have a healer living there.”

The healer was a new addition to the household, brought in at great expense to help with the rather complex job of helping Marya Hendricks recover herself, after eight years locked in an asylum. Her specialization might’ve been the mind, but any Grisha healer who’d served in the Second Army knew their way around a bullet wound well enough.

“Keeg, Pim.” The two bruisers were still standing by the door, staring at the bloody scene with barely disguised panic. They’d been in their fair share of scraps, but it was something else entirely to watch helplessly as a comrade, even a friend, bled out on the floor in front of them. But they each shook themselves into action at the sound of their own names, stepping forward for their next orders like the loyal soldiers they were.

“There’s a spare cot in my office. Make a stretcher. Try not to jostle him too much.” 

Wylan wouldn’t like it. It certainly wouldn’t endear him to any of his neighbors on the Geldstraat if he was found to be harboring a convalescing criminal under his roof. Nor was it fair to ask it of him. But there was still something fundamentally decent that beat inside that mercher chest of his, and Kaz wouldn’t feel guilty for exploiting it. Not when his favorite jacket was still stained in Roeder’s blood.

Sander managed to persuade a man to part with his gondel, and their odd procession made their way down to the canal, to settle Roeder aboard. Keeg and Pim joined him, Anika already sitting beside the spider, one hand still pressed to his side as she sought to cover them both from view with a blanket.

“Keep to the waterways,” Kaz advised from the canalside. “And for saint’s sake, keep your faces hidden. We don’t know who else is after us. And Anika?”

He waited for his lieutenant's eyes to meet his own.

“Tell Wylan I’m sorry.”

She blinked in surprise. “Where are you going?” 

“To skin some Liddies,” Kaz growled, snatching up his cane.

♠


	5. The Bakkerstraat

It had always been a source of some irony to Kaz that the Liddies couldn’t afford to maintain their headquarters in the very district they professed to control. In the old days, they’d operated out of a handsome mansion by the waterfront with a string of properties to their name.

But the Liddies had been victims of their own success, slowly priced out of the booming entertainment district they’d help to build by an influx of legitimate interests with legitimate money.

Now they were just another Barrel gang, scraping by on their wits and reminiscing about their glory days. Kaz didn’t envy them the loss of the Pearl Palace. It had been the jewel in their rather tarnished crown. But that didn’t mean his retribution wouldn’t be swift and exacting.

If he’d thought much about it, he might’ve lamented sending his three best fighters off on a gondel when he was about to have a tangle, but there were no shortage of volunteers from the other Dregs. Nothing like a little blood in the water to get everyone in the mood for violence.

In the end, the Liddies had been caught woefully unprepared. It was clear they hadn’t yet decided whether to flee or fight, and they were still arguing amongst themselves when Kaz burst through the door of the apartment on Bakkerstraat, pistol in hand.

They’d shot to wound, rather than kill. It was a mercy they hardly deserved, but dead men couldn’t sing quite as well as bleeding ones.

He eventually found Ludo, their illustrious leader, cowering under his desk, and let two recruits haul him out. One either side, they forced the man to his knees, holding him steady so Kaz could let the pistol rest against his forehead.

“It wasn’t- They weren’t- I never gave the order. They acted alone.” He positively reeked of fear, his clothes sticky with sweat. He knew exactly how much trouble he was in.

“You can’t control your own soldiers, Ludo?” Kaz taunted.

“Not always, apparently,” Ludo muttered bitterly. It was a costly admission. No one would respect a leader who couldn’t keep his own men in line.

“Where are they? Your rogues?”

For a moment, he thought Ludo might clam up. Might put their lives above his own. But this was the Barrel, and there was no real honor among thieves. Everyone knew that. A few nervous seconds at the wrong end of Kaz’s loaded pistol and he rattled off an address in Third Harbor, and provided a description of the three who’d gone after Roeder.

As a sign of good faith, Kaz lowered his weapon, but the two heavies kept their hold on him. “I don’t suppose you know who put them up to it? Got them all riled up?”

“Just Barrel gossip,” Ludo said dismissively. “Everyone on the Staves is talking about it.”

With a sigh, Kaz holstered his pistol and pulled out his favorite knife, letting the cold steel press against the man’s throat. “And who is _everyone_?”

♠

Ludo was quite forthcoming when he wanted to be, but even he couldn’t trace the rumor to its original source. He himself had heard it secondhand from a waitress at Cilla’s Fry, who’d heard it from two young Barrel rats who’d wandered in off West Stave. 

It was not much of a lead.

Satisfied the man had bled enough, Kaz returned his knife to his boot, and sent a couple of lugs to flush out Roeder’s attackers. 

He left Ludo to his men, those that weren’t already crawling off in search of a medik. Something told him Ludo’s days of leadership were numbered.

The streets of Ketterdam were still dangerous for Dregs, so long as the whispers continued. He advised his remaining recruits to go to ground unless they had shifts at the Crow Club. Keep out of trouble. 

Ignoring his own advice, Kaz walked, and he took inventory of all his worst enemies. 

It didn’t take a small amount of time. You didn’t become King of the Barrel without spilling a little blood. For near on ten years he’d cheated, blackmailed and brawled his way from one side of the city to the other, and hadn’t made a great many friends along the way.

He thought he’d been wandering, but when he came upon a bridge by the smoldering ruins of the Herengracht, he realized he was simply returning to the scene of the crime.

Not his crime, but someone’s.

These rumors were more than idle Barrel gossip. That much was true. It was far too widespread and targeted to be anything but an orchestrated campaign. But were they the work of the fire raiser themselves, or by an opportunistic enemy? Could they be one and the same?

If Kaz had to name everyone who wanted him dead, he’d be at it for days. Instead, he started at the top. 

Jan Van Eck was certainly a promising contender. The man had, deservedly, lost everything at Kaz’s hands. His house, his fortune. Even his wife, the delightful Alys, had remarried, his precious heir left to be raised as another man’s son. And if Helvar had taught Kaz anything, it was that Hellgate left a man plenty of time to contemplate revenge.

What Van Eck didn’t have was resources. Wylan controlled the empire now, the holdings the authorities knew about, and the ones they didn’t. Van Eck didn’t have too many friends either, not after his actions had put such a stain on the Merchant Council’s reputation. Cornelis Smeet’s character had also been called into question, and he’d done everything he could to distance himself from the association, up to and including a relocation to Belendt.

Pekka Rollins had quit Ketterdam. Packed his family onto a boat and headed back to the dreary coasts of the Wandering Isle, where his dwindling fortune might still keep him in the relative luxury to which he’d grown accustomed.

Then there were the other gangs. They were always nipping at his heels. Even now the Harley’s Pointers had a spy in his ranks, a rather pretty Shu girl who worked the tables at the Crow Club. Perhaps they thought that might be enough to turn Kaz’s head. Mostly she just found herself working double shifts, relegated to the tables that always seemed to be patronized by the most tight-fisted of their regulars. 

But it wasn’t just the Harley’s Pointers. Kaz couldn’t forget Geels and the Black Tips. There was no doubt Geels still held a grudge after the showdown at the docks, the night Oomen never made it back. Maybe his pride had never really recovered from their failed parley at the Exchange, and his shattered wrist. 

The scheme seemed a little overcomplicated for someone of Geel’s limited imagination. If he really wanted to do Kaz harm, all he’d have to do was pull a gun on the floor of the Crow Club when he made his nightly rounds to check the receipts. Or stake out berth twenty-two in Fifth Harbor, and make him really bleed. 

But there was something about Geels that lingered in his memory. Some important detail about their last exchange. Hadn’t Kaz threatened to set his beloved’s house alight, from floor to rooftop? Elise. That was her name, with the lovely yellow hair.

No, he couldn’t discount Geels. Not just yet. Nor a dozen other possibilities. 

♠

The Slat was mostly empty by the time he returned after nightfall, with only a few strays still lingering in the hallways, not quite sure where to go. Someone had made a valiant effort at mopping up the entrance hall, but there was no hiding the worst of it. A new rug was definitely in order.

Kaz sent the stragglers on their way, and hobbled up every last stair to his attic rooms. He took his time washing off the blood, both Roeder’s and Ludo’s. He dug out a fresh jacket from his closet. Found a new hat. He was just replacing his gloves when there was a sharp knock at his door.

Kaz yanked the door open, voice dripping with annoyance. “What now?”

It was Pim, evidently returned from his trip to the Geldstraat, and looking just as put out.

“You might want to come downstairs. The Crow Club is being raided.”

♠


	6. The Crow Club

A raid.  _ Saints.  _ It was the very last thing Kaz needed, today of all days. 

They happened, from time to time. The Stadwatch could be a restless and spiteful lot. Any time the wave of public opinion began to turn against them, they tended to start kicking open doors in the Barrel, and waving their cudgels around. They never found anything worth charging over, not at the Crow Club, but that was never really the point.

It was about power, pure and simple. About convincing themselves they still had authority in a city that followed the rule of trade first, and the law second. With their recent failures splashed all over the newspapers, Kaz might’ve expected them to start getting antsy.

What made less sense, was why his spies in the Stadhall hadn’t sounded the alarm. Holst, at the very least, should’ve been in a position to send advance warning. Perhaps Holst had grown complacent. Perhaps Kaz would have to pay a visit to his wife.

“What’s the use in extorting somebody,” Kaz muttered darkly, “if you don’t get anything out of it?”

Beside him, Pim hummed in idle agreement. Side by side, they crossed the bridge nearest the Crow Club. He could already see the crowd gathered by the doors, the gawkers and displaced customers.  _ His  _ customers.

He glanced over at Pim. “Roeder?”

He’d been almost afraid to ask. The last thing he needed was more bad news. 

“Alive,” Pim reassured him. “Healer didn’t make any promises, but he was breathing when we left. She was kind of prickly, though.”

No doubt. A lone Grisha in Ketterdam could hardly afford to be otherwise.

Pim checked his watch. “Already nine bells. How long d’you think they are going to shut us down for?”

Kaz was nothing if not a realist. “As long as they can.” 

The crowd parted as they drew near the front doors of the Crow Club, and Kaz finally clapped eyes on the men who’d shut him down. There were eleven officers clustered in the main atrium, strutting around like roosters in a hen house. Kaz recognized one of the faces from a previous raid, a thickset man with sergeant’s stripes adorning his sleeves. If he remembered rightly, the man had taken particular pride last time in upending Kaz’s meticulous filing system and harassing his staff. 

It was to him that Kaz addressed his cheery greeting. “Officers,  _ Sergeant _ .” He bowed low. Just low enough to be respectful. Just long enough to hint at mockery. “How may I be of assistance to the city watch this evening?”

“You’re the owner, then?” The sergeant gave Kaz a dismissive once over. “Mister Brekker, is it?” 

“Majority owner, yes,” Kaz answered smoothly. “I’m Mister Brekker.”

“Well then,  _ Mister Brekker, _ ” the sergeant sneered, shoving a crumpled piece of paper against Kaz’s chest. “That’s a warrant. Says we have the right to search the premises. The  _ whole  _ premises.” 

As he spoke the words, the other officers finally seemed to recall their purpose in being there, and began to fan out.

“If you tell me what you’re looking for, I might be able to expedite the process,” Kaz offered coolly, flinching internally as one of the officers took a cudgel to the plasterwork. Another pulled out a knife, and proceeded to hack apart the velvet cushions in the lounge.

The sergeant gave a wheezing laugh. “That’s not really how this works.”

Fists clenched white around the warrant paper, Kaz swallowed back his rage. He smoothed out the page, and scanned the text, looking for the judge who’d put their name to this farce. But the signature at the bottom wasn’t the thing that caught his eye.

Even a city as corrupt as Ketterdam had to at least give the appearance of civility, or else the entire thing would crumble into the sea. The Stadwatch, for instance, couldn’t go around kicking in doors without reason. And that reason had to be witnessed and signed off by a judge, and printed on a search warrant.

Half of them were bought and paid for, but even then there was no shortage of pious, overweening men behind the bench who thought it was their solemn duty to save the city from its vices. They only had to see the Barrel address, and they would sign their name on the flimsiest of suspicions.

_ Operating without a gambling license. Storing stolen goods. Harboring a fugitive. _

Often the Stadwatch got lucky. Ketterdam being Ketterdam, you could walk into just about any gambling den in the city, and find evidence of  _ something  _ untoward. Kaz liked to make it a little harder for visitors to the Crow Club, but it was always a game of chance. 

Only this time the Stadwatch weren’t tearing the place apart looking for shipment of stolen jurda or a card dealer who’d missed a court appearance. The charge stood plain, in black and white.

_ Storage of material used in the substantial destruction of property with loss of life _

Kaz screwed the paper into a ball. It couldn’t be a coincidence. The charge was too specific. The timing was too suspect. This wasn’t some pretext for a good old fashioned rousting, a few frustrated guards getting their licks in.

It was a set up. 

Out the corner of his eye, Kaz watched as two of the officers casually stationed themselves by the front doors, hands poised on their rifles. A third paced idly by the stairwell, effectively blocking any passage upstairs. 

Pim must’ve felt it too, the way his arms were swinging anxiously at his sides. The tightening of the noose.

Then came a shout from an adjacent parlor. “We got something!”

Kaz would not let the diversion go to waste. He tossed his cane into the air, catching the end of it and swinging the crow’s head like a club. The sergeant dodged the blow, but it cost him his balance. Kaz drove his shoulder into the man’s side, and he went down like a sack of potatoes. 

The other officers rushed forward, but Kaz already had the sergeant by the hair, his own service rifle pressed against the base of his skull. 

“Easy now,” Kaz said slowly, dragging the man to his feet. The commotion had brought the other officers back into the main atrium, until there were ten, no, nine rifles all pointed in their direction. Pim had already taken down one of them with a chair, which he now brandished along with the fallen man’s weapon. 

Kaz had suffered worse odds. 

“Shoot him!” the sergeant growled, but his men held their fire. “Just shoot him, damn you!”

Behind his hostage, Kaz began to smile. A showman’s smile. “Awfully sorry for the change of plans, gentlemen, but I’m afraid we won’t be staying.” 

Tucking his cane into the crook of his arm, he and Pim both started towards the entrance, hauling the sergeant with them.

The two men guarding the door exchanged a glance.

“De Vries and Loman, isn’t it?” Kaz said, addressing them by name. It had the desired effect, both of them visibly rattled. “Remind me, how are your wives? Mathilde? Famke?”

“Lotte,” Pim cut in. “Famke left him, remember?”

“Of course! How could I forget? Lotte was the lady she caught him with. They say you should never marry your mistress. Takes all the excitement out of it.” Kaz turned to face the young officer. “What do you think? Any regrets?”

It was as good as a password. Both guards lowered their weapons, wordlessly stepping away from the door. 

“Right choice, gentlemen.”

Kaz made the sergeant step outside first, with Pim and his newly acquired gun left to cover their exit. There was still an assembly of curious onlookers, and when they glimpsed Pim’s weapon there was the usual hysteria. Screaming. Crying. People running in all directions.

Tourists who liked to visit Kerch for the ‘culture’ never seemed all that grateful when they were presented with the real thing up close. 

The sergeant took advantage of the mayhem to struggle out of Kaz’s grip and take a swing. Kaz dodged the punch, but he didn’t expect the elbow. It struck his cheek like a hammer blow.

“Son of a-”

The pain was blinding. He staggered forwards, rifle falling from his grasp. One hand pressed to his cheek, he let his cane slip back into his other hand, keeping him from keeling over. Boots scrabbled on the cobblestones behind him, and he knew it was the sergeant come to finish the job.

Kaz turned swiftly, his vision still doubled, and swung with his cane. It was a desperate, sloppy move, but the hit still struck home with a crunch of cartilage and spray of blood. The sergeant howled in pain, hands already clutching his face. Kaz took the opportunity to push him in the direction of a nearby flower cart, and scanned the crowd for Pim.

The bruiser was already halfway down the block when Kaz’s whistle drew him up short. Kaz whistled again twice, in short succession. Pim tipped a thumb to his head in a lazy salute, and faded back into the confused masses.

Steadying himself on his cane, Kaz would’ve given anything for a breather. But already men in purple uniforms were streaming from the doors of the Crow Club, rifles held high. So he did what the heroes in the stories never did. He turned tail, and he ran.

♠


	7. Wild Geraniums

He couldn’t return to the Slat.

The Stadwatch were sure to be crawling all over the Barrel, trying to sniff him out. Kaz had all manner of bolt holes, some more obvious than others. A shipping container in Fifth Harbor. An apartment on Kolstraat. Even the crypt on Black Veil wasn’t entirely compromised. But he knew the lowlifes and criminals of his city well. None of his secrets were safe so long as his enemies still had a few kruge to spread around. 

So instead he pushed eastwards, to the more respectable quarters where his infamy hadn’t yet reached the monied classes. 

His route through the city was a serpentine one, and he doubled back a handful of times. All the while he’d felt like he was being watched, but when he’d finally arrived at Tante Birgit’s rooms in the University District the hour was late, the street was deserted, and he limped up the stairs two at a time.

He’d ditched his cane into an alley somewhere near the Exchange, in an effort to make himself less conspicuous, and his bad leg made him feel it.

Tante Birgit was the ideal landlady for any young man looking for discreet accommodations. She was withered and ancient, her sight nearly gone. Far too frail to trouble herself with housekeeping or spying on her tenants. She could barely manage the stairs.

Instead she was usually to be found outside on the front stoop, feeding bread to the ducks who waddled up from the canal, or asleep by her fire. She’d taken Kaz for a student at the University and he’d never sought to correct her. As long as he paid the rent on time, and kept the noise down, she would have no reason to suspect otherwise.

It had been a few weeks. The door took an extra curse and a shove to get open, the frame warped by the humidity. The air inside smelled stale, and the curtains were already drawn.

Kaz locked the door, and lit the candle, bathing the room in a warm orange glow. It didn’t much improve matters. There wasn’t a lot to be said for Tante Birgit’s taste in furnishings. The room was simple, little more than a washbasin and a hard, narrow bed. Kaz had enjoyed cheerier prison cells, but it might’ve been the Geldrunner’s best suite, by how his entire body sighed with utter relief as he sank into the mattress.

He shucked off his boots, letting them fall onto the floorboards with a clatter. He heard his knife follow after them, but he didn’t have the energy to retrieve it. Not for the moment.

Everything ached. His leg. His hip, from the effort of walking without the limp. His cheek, where the Sergeant’s elbow had collided with his face. He didn’t need a mirror to know that one was going to leave a mark. 

He could only hope he’d broken the man’s nose in return. 

Comforted by the thought, Kaz draped the coarse blanket over himself. It smelled vaguely of cats long dead, but he found he didn’t mind it. 

They’d had cats on their farm, when he’d been small. They’d kept the mice away. Kaz used to crawl up into the hayloft where they liked to sleep, and they would encircle him, fuzzy heads brushing up against his skinny legs. Claiming him. Sometimes they would even let themselves fall asleep in his lap, purring their contentment-

♠

Kaz woke to darkness, and the unmistakable sound of steel scraping against steel. 

Lamenting the loss of his cane, he grasped instead for the nearest thing to a weapon at his disposal. He came up with… a chamberpot. Not his ideal choice, but at least it had some heft to it.

He curled his hand around the porcelain handle and waited. They clearly didn’t have his talent for locks. It took a few more seconds of scraping for the door to unlatch. For the small squeak of hinges to announce their arrival.

He barely glimpsed an outline before he hurled the chamberpot at the intruder, making a move towards his discarded boots, and the knife he always kept there.

He’d barely drawn it out when the intruder spoke. 

“Kaz.”

For a moment, he thought he’d imagined it. He’d spent so much time imagining it. Her voice. Her laugh. Every tiny noise and inflection. 

He dropped the knife.

It took precious seconds to find her outstretched fingers in the dark, to pull her towards him. To let his Wraith fall against his chest, to feel her strong, lean arms encircle his waist.

“Saints, Inej, I could’ve slit your throat.”

“You could’ve tried.”  He couldn’t see the smile, but he could hear it. 

Inside his chest, his traitorous heart began to beat like a kettledrum. He was sure she could hear it. How could she not? 

Feeling self-conscious, he released her, making a show of searching his pockets for matches. The candle struggled to life, a dull yellow flame, but for his thirsty eyes it was little more than a miracle. Sankta Alina herself couldn’t have summoned a more brilliant light. 

His Inej. Seaswept and exhausted, too real to be an apparition. Too perfect to be believed.

“Specht told me not to expect you back for another month.”

Inej shrugged, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “Specht likes me better than you.”

Everyone liked Inej better than him. Kaz had made the man rich. Stuffed his pockets with Kruge and returned him to the seafaring life he loved. But it was Inej that he would follow over every horizon, and to her alone that he gave his loyalty.

Kaz shook his head, and the light must’ve caught his face at a new angle, because Inej frowned. “You’re hurt.”

She laid a bare hand on his cheek, and Kaz fought the instinct to recoil. She seemed to sense the war within him, but she didn’t remove her hand. 

_ Don’t you dare. This is Inej. Your Inej.  _ _ Not dead. Alive. Warm. Feel how alive she is? _

When he finally opened his eyes again, it was to a searching look, her hand still cupping his face. He shot her an encouraging grin, and she returned it, grazing her knuckles over the bruise the Sergeant had left along his cheekbone.

“I have a salve in my bag,” she said, making no effort to get it. Instead she let her touch wander, tracing his cheekbones, his eyebrows. When she finally let her fingertips brush his bottom lip, he caught her wrist in his hands, holding it steady, pressing a kiss first to her fingertips, and then her palm.

“Saints, I missed you,” he said, before pulling her in for a proper kiss, his lips slanting over hers. 

It was brief, but he felt her smile against his skin as she pulled away.

He loved that smile.

He loved…

He made no effort to escalate their kiss, and neither did she. He settled instead for wrapping his arms around her, and bringing her close, close enough until he could feel her kitten breaths against his neck.

He still wore his gloves. He wanted to take them off. Prove to her he could be everything she wanted him to be. That he was more than this stupid weakness. That he didn’t need the armor with her. But when they settled onto the narrow bed together, legs tangled on top of the blanket, he didn’t take them off.

“I can’t stay,” she said, something like regret pricking her voice. “Unless you need me?”

He  _ did  _ need her, he wanted to say. He always needed her. But he stayed his tongue. 

“Just tonight then?”

“Just tonight,” she agreed, nuzzling further into his chest. “But don’t think you’re not going to tell me what happened at the Crow Club. I’ve never seen so many Stadwatch in my life.”

“Ah,” Kaz said, leaning away from her slightly. “ _ That _ .”

“Yes,  _ that,”  _ she said, letting far too much of Nina’s sarcasm seep into her voice. “You didn’t think I’d notice I was spending the night with the most wanted man in Ketterdam?”

“You followed me.” It wasn’t a question. He’d chalked it up to healthy paranoia at the time, but now he realized his senses hadn’t failed him. He  _ had  _ been followed.

“I did. Couldn’t help but notice everyone has cleared out of the Slat. Knew that meant trouble. I picked up your trail just after you crossed the Zentsbridge. Even without the cane, you have a very distinctive walk.”

She was teasing him.

“You heard about the Herengracht?”

She shot him a look. “Everyone from here to the Wandering Isle has heard about what happened to the Herengracht.”

“Yes, well, the Stadwatch seem quite convinced I’m their man.”

“Oh,  _ Kaz _ .”

“They raided the Crow Club. Not sure what they found, but I bet it’s damning.”

“I’ll bet. You know who set you up?”

Kaz gritted his teeth. “Not yet. But I will.”

“Only a fool would cross Dirtyhands Brekker, and expect to come away clean.” 

“Another Suli proverb?” She elbowed him in the ribs for that, but he laughed it off. 

She was easy to tease like this. More a girl softened by candlelight, less the killer. And what did that make him? Was he less of a monster to her now? What was there underneath his ugly mask, but more of the same?

But she wasn’t looking at him like he was a monster. She looked… worried. He tipped her chin up, meeting her gaze. “Inej, do you doubt me?”

A snort. An eye roll. “I know better than to underestimate you.”

“But do you trust me?”

Kaz wasn’t in the habit of asking for more than Inej could give. He didn’t expect pretty words, or trinkets, or oaths of fidelity. But in this moment, he needed to know she believed in him.

She bit her lip, but nodded slowly, eyes shining. 

He leaned forward and pressed a kiss against her temple, lips lingering on her skin. “So trust me to find a way out of this.”

A rogue tear spilled down her cheek, and she wiped it away with the heel of her hand. “I’ve seen a lot of clever men swing, Kaz. I don’t think it works that way.”

“It does for us,” he said, words shot through with certainty. He’d do whatever it took, if only it meant he wouldn’t have to be the cause of more of her tears.

She seemed to consider that. Then she blew out a breath and held out her hand. “The deal is the deal.”

How else did you make sure a man from Ketterdam kept his promises?

Kaz shucked off his leather gloves, letting them fall to the floor beside the bed, and reached for Inej’s bare hand. “The deal is the deal.”

♠

The morning dawned bright and cold, and his Wraith was gone. 

Her side of the bed was cool to the touch, and not so much as the scent of her still clung to the sheets. He might’ve imagined her entirely if it weren’t for the gifts she’d left behind

Sitting atop her pillow was a jar of salve and a single wild geranium. And leaning against the washstand, like it had never been anywhere else, his crow’s head cane. 

She’d opened the curtains too, letting in the sunrise. Not very cautious, considering half the city was after him. But after so many weeks of grey skies tinged with smoke, there was something invigorating about the sun on his skin. 

Kaz got up to apply the salve, his gaze drawn back to the flower on the pillow. Inej had once told him wild geraniums were her mother’s favorite flower. Kaz was beginning to suspect they were a favorite of hers as well. They’d grown wild along the roadsides of West Ravka in the summer, as her family traveled from town to town in their caravans. A reminder of simpler times. A subtle symbol of hope, amidst the darkness. 

He twirled the bloom between his fingers, the petals catching the morning light. They glowed a brilliant purple. Almost a-

Kaz felt his heart stutter inside his chest as something finally clicked into place.

Almost a Stadwatch purple.

♠


	8. The Geldstraat

Stadwatch purple.

 _Of course_. Why had Kaz never properly considered the possibility of an inside job? Who else would have such easy access to Nouwen’s office and his home? Who else would’ve had to disguise their handwriting from him?

He’d assumed Geels or perhaps the Liddies had orchestrated the raid of the Crow Club. But what if someone within the Stadwatch itself was the architect?

How else could they have planted the necessary materials inside the Crow Club? Every entrance was guarded at all times. Even with a Harley's Pointer on the payroll, it would've been nigh impossible to bring in enough material to level a building without at least one of his people noticing. Not at the beginning of a busy evening.

So if not earlier, the material must've been planted during the raid, when the Club was cleared out. Perhaps by some of their more eager young recruits. He was sure they could justify it to themselves. It wasn't such a large leap from gangster to a mass murderer, not in their unformed little minds, which still saw good and evil as rigid, immovable concepts.

Not that they would've done so under their own steam, of course. The Stadwatch didn't recruit for innovative thinking. So, a higher up, then. A Watch Captain, at least. Kaz had to admit his knowledge of the current structure was lacking, if his slip-up with Loman at the Crow Club was any clue. After Inej's departure, he'd been less than diligent about pressing Roeder for details, distracted by his expansion plans.

Stupid.

What Kaz _did_ know, was there existed a number of up-and-comers in the Stadwatch who stood to benefit if and when Nouwen's stubborn brand of courage failed. To refuse to yield to this murderer's demands was admirable enough, but if he couldn't stop the fires, the city would turn on him. They'd throw him over for someone else. Someone with fewer morals and a good deal more grit.

The newspapers were halfway there already.

But such an ambitious personality still needed someone to throw to the wolves. A mass murderer living free made everyone nervous. The blame would radiate outwards and infect the entire city. Cripple trade. They needed a scapegoat. A troublemaker of local renown, on which to pin the blame. A corpse, who wouldn't be called upon to defend himself in court.

In short, they needed Kaz.

But no, it was too soon. Nouwen was still in power, however tenuously. If Kaz was captured now, it would be Nouwen's triumph. Wouldn't it?

Unless… had his escape from the Crow Club been too easy? Was the arrest bungled on purpose? He wouldn't have thought so, considering the Sergeant's fervent desire to do him serious harm.

Alright, so not that. Perhaps something simpler. The raid. The information must've come from someone. Suppose they were taking full credit, backed up by Nouwen's worst detractors.

All they needed was Kaz's dead body. The monster slain at last. The glory could propel just about anyone into office. The Man Who Saved Ketterdam.

He saw it now, how they'd all merely been string puppets, dancing at the behest of an unseen master. Nouwen. Himself. The Liddies. The people of Ketterdam, worst of all.

Someone meant to make Kaz their monster. Someone who had no compunctions about killing a lot of people to get what they wanted.

Someone who'd viciously underestimated Kaz's capacity for survival.

♠

His cane restored to him, Kaz borrowed a few items from his landlady’s armoire, assuming the guise of an old crone. 

No one so much as glanced his way as he shuffled his way north along the canal, past the coffeehouses and bank buildings. It was an effective disguise. Nothing repelled the eye of a wealthy student or gentleman banker quite like an intrusion of poverty into their calm, orderly lives. To acknowledge Kaz in his costume was to acknowledge a parallel world they were not yet prepared to see, let alone accept.

Abandoning the crone outfit under a convenient hedge, Kaz defied his usual instincts and approached by the front door, rapping three times with the head of his cane.

The butler who opened the door was a familiar face, a holdover from Jan Van Eck’s reign of terror. It took the wizened servant all of five seconds to take Kaz’s measure, shrewd eyes falling upon the rumpled suit and lingering on the dark bruise blooming across one cheek. Even with Inej’s salve, he still looked every inch the Barrel thug.

“Mr Brekker,” he said, with a smile that spoke only of obligation. He stepped aside, holding the door wide to grant Kaz entry. “Do come in. Master Wylan is in his study. Would you like me to escort you?”

He did not, and said as much. With a stiff nod, the old man faded into the wallpaper in that way unique only to burglars and good household staff. _Or his Wraith,_ Kaz mused, as he forced his bad leg up the stairs to the second floor landing.

Wylan’s study was to the left, newly refurbished and facing out onto the canal. Instead, Kaz turned right and disappeared into a dimly lit hallway lined with severe-looking portraits.

The last door on the left was ajar, warm light spilling through into the corridor. Kaz edged closer, catching the soft whisper of a feminine voice. He pushed the door open with the head of his cane, relieved to find Roeder’s sickroom.

It was plush, by Barrel standards. Far nicer than anything at the Slat. Red velvet drapes. Tasteful wallpaper. A dedicated Healer sitting by the bedside.

She startled when Kaz crossed the threshold, standing to block his view of the patient.

“Sir, I ask you-”

She was pretty, he thought, though her Kerch was a little rough. The Little Palace had always turned out more than its fair share of beauties. But it was her sure grip on the knife at her belt that held Kaz’s full attention.

Not the instinctual response of a trained Corporalki soldier. She must’ve exhausted quite a bit of her power on Roeder’s recovery if she was resorting to cold steel.

Kaz attempted to disarm with a smile, firstly, and then a small incline of his head.

“My apologies, Miss…?”

“Sokolov,” she replied automatically.

“Miss Sokolov. I am sorry, but I must ask you to clear the room.” His request was perfectly polite, but she remained unmoved. She knew a dangerous man when she saw one.

“Mister Van Eck-” 

“It’s fine, Tatiana,” Wylan said, stepping into the room behind him. “Mister Brekker is here at my invitation.”

That wasn’t entirely accurate, but Kaz was hardly about to argue the point. He settled instead for shooting a triumphant smile in the woman’s direction. Her grip on the knife did not diminish.

“Mister Brekker is a friend to Mister Roeder,” Wylan explained, placing a gentle hand on the Healer’s forearm. “It was his quick thinking that led to Mister Roeder entering your care, rather than bleeding out in a hospital.”

Hospital had never been an option, but the Healer, Tatiana, didn’t need to know that.

Kaz cleared his throat. “Miss Sokolov,” he started again, his voice repentant. “I’m sorry for the interruption. I understand Healing is a very long and difficult process, but I must speak with Mister Roeder immediately. The men who attacked him are still at liberty, and his testimony is crucial if justice is to be served.”

Just what sort of character he was playing, Kaz couldn’t say. The concerned friend. The concerned citizen. But Tatiana was not so easily convinced.

“He’s not in state to-” 

“Five minutes,” Wylan interrupted, in a voice that did not broker discussion. “Please,” he added, softening a little. “There’s tea and cakes being served down in the parlor. I promise you, Tatiana, we will do our very best not to agitate the patient in the meantime.”

She still looked unhappy, but she could hardly refuse a direct order from the man who signed her paychecks. She settled instead for fixing Kaz with a withering look as she took her leave. 

“What a charming woman,” Kaz remarked dryly, when the sound of her footsteps had faded down the hallway. 

“She’s a scary one,” Roeder coughed, making an aborted attempt to sit up in bed. “But she’s a bloody miracle worker. I’d be on my way to the reaper’s barge if it weren’t for her.”

“Oh, so you _are_ awake,” Kaz drawled, lowering himself down into the Healer’s vacated chair with a small groan. “Always the consummate spy.”

If Roeder had just a touch more life left in him, he might’ve preened. He settled instead for a pleased cough as he sank back into his pillows.

Satisfied his spider was on the mend, Kaz turned back to Wylan, who had begun to pace.

“You’re angry,” Kaz noted.

“I’m not _not_ angry,” Wylan admitted. “The whole city is convinced you’re responsible for the fires in the Lid. You picked an interesting day for a house call.”

“None of your neighbors saw me arrive, if that’s your concern.”

“Maybe his concern is he’s worried about you.” Kaz looked up to see Jesper stood in the doorway, a half-eaten slice of cake still cradled in one hand.

Tatiana’s appearance downstairs must’ve tipped him off.

“I’ll be fine,” Kaz replied shortly, straightening the cuffs of his jacket. “As soon as I clear my name.”

“And how are you going to do that, with your face plastered across every lamp post from here to Sweet Reef?” Jesper asked.

“That depends,” Kaz began, turning back to face the bed. “On what intelligence _Mister Roeder_ sees fit to share with us.”

“Intelligence?” Wylan asked, but Kaz’s gaze never left Roeder’s face.

“The Stadwatch are at breaking point. If Nouwen is stood down, who takes over?”

The concentration clearly cost him, a fine sweat breaking out on his forehead, but Roeder didn’t hesitate. “There’s only three Watch Captains with enough political leverage. Let’s see… Hoogart. Francis Hoogart. Schaeffer. I forget his first name. The blonde one, with the belly. And Holst.”

Kaz’s blood ran cold. “ _Willem_ Holst?” he asked, trying to keep his voice level.

It took Jesper a minute. “The guard from the Exchange, the one with the freaky ……?”

“Not just a guard anymore,” Roeder said. “He’s been a busy boy this past year. Word is, one of the Council members took a particular shine to him. He’s been climbing all kinds of ladders.”

“Which Council member?” Wylan interrupted.

“Jakob Koster. Apparently Holst distinguished himself during the plague outbreak that wasn’t a plague outbreak.” He cast a sideways glance at Kaz. “He may or may not have personally escorted Koster’s wife and children outside of the quarantine zone, and safely to their country house near Belendt. I believe he was disciplined at the time, but I can’t say his career was any the worse off. On the contrary…”

“Koster’s got the largest fleet of any merch,” Wylan added, fitting the pieces together aloud. “If he’s decided to make Holst his man in the Stadwatch…”

Kaz had wondered. _Why him?_ There were no shortage of crooks in Ketterdam, petty or otherwise. Why cast him as the villain in this little pantomime? His recent buy ups in the Lid may have been convenient, but nor were they especially damning. There were plenty of other thugs who would frame up better.

Finally, he understood. 

Only one thing stood between Willem Holst and his ambitions, and that was the secret Kaz held over him. The truth of the monster he became when he slithered out of his uniform at night, when he told his wife he was working the late shift again. 

“I don’t get it,” Jesper said, interrupting his thoughts. “What does Willem Holst have to do with the raid on the Crow Club? Or the fire at the Opera House?” 

Kaz felt his exasperation building, until he remembered the crucial clue. The pertinent detail he’d never shared with them.

“The ransom notes,” he explained. “Nouwen’s let everyone believe the blackmailer is just after barrels and barrels of kruge, but I’ve seen the originals. They aren’t demanding money. They’re demanding his resignation. Now who would benefit most from Captain Nouwen taking an early retirement?”

He paused to let the truth of it sink in, but Jesper still wore a frown. “Okay, sure, you’re ambitious. You’re connected. Your only goal in life is a shiny brass badge and a fat pension. But people have _died_ in these fires. Scores of them. Innocents. Can a man really live with that on his conscience? A man who’s given his oath to protect the city?”

For nearly two years, Kaz had guarded Holst’s secret. Leveraged it for information and the occasional favor, trusting that the man’s shame outweighed his ambition.

Kaz had misjudged. Shame was a curious cocktail of desire and regret. A favored currency of his. But he saw the truth now, for all the good it did him. It hadn’t been shame that had bound Willem Holst to Kaz’s will, but pride. A man who didn’t regret his actions had no cause to be ashamed of them.

“I doubt Holst loses much sleep over it,” Kaz admitted. “He’s killed before.“

♠

Jesper opened his mouth to respond, but before he could get a single word out Tatiana was bursting through the door, her pocket watch held aloft, glinting from a silver chain. 

“You say five minutes, Mister Van Eck.” She tapped the watch face with a defiant fingertip. “Five minutes.”

A stickler. Her defection must’ve been a great loss to the Second Army.

Clicking her tongue, she leaned over to assess the patient, who’d gone back to feigning sleep.

“He’s pale,” she said, her accusation aimed squarely at Kaz.

“His parents were Kaelish,” Jesper offered reasonably. “If he _wasn’t_ pale, now that would be cause for concern.”

The Healer muttered something low in Ravkan. Kaz didn’t speak the language, but he knew a curse when he heard one.

“Thank you, Tatiana,” Wylan responded diplomatically, shooing the others from the room. “We appreciate your help.” 

They’d barely filed into Wylan’s study before Jesper turned around, clearly irate. He pointed a finger at Kaz’s chest. 

“What do you mean, _killed before_?” He turned on Wylan. “And what did she just call me?”

Wylan’s complexion reddened. “Err… I didn’t catch it. My Ravkan is a little rusty.”

Jesper shot him a level look to let him know they’d be discussing it later.

“ _Killed before?_ ” Jesper prompted again, an octave higher.

Holst’s secrets were worthless now, as was Kaz’s leverage over them. There was no use playing coy anymore. Not now he was facing the gallows.

“Holst is a particular kind of creep,” Kaz explained. “He doesn’t frequent the brothels, because the madams would never stand for the way he handles the merchandise. But several nights a week, he disappears for several hours and a few street urchins appear the next morning wolfing down skillets of eggs at the Kooperom, nursing fresh bruises, their pockets bulging with Kruge.”

Jesper winced, and Wylan looked like he might be sick.

“His wife’s father was a baker. Best custard tarts in Ketterdam. I’m still not sure how he found out about what his son-in-law was up to, but he did. They had it out. I suppose he thought his little girl deserved better. But before the father-in-law could share his discovery with Mrs Holst, his bakery mysteriously went up in flames.” 

“With the father-in-law still inside…?” Wylan guessed.

Kaz nodded gravely. “The Fire Brigade determined it was an accident. It wasn’t. One of the shoeshine boys on the street opposite saw Holst leave just before the building went up. Overhead an argument between the two earlier that day. The boy tried to report it to the Stadwatch, but they dismissed him. Accused him of telling tales. So he came to me.” 

And if Kaz had simply done as Sander had asked, and evened the score, seventy people might still be alive. Instead he’d tried to extort favors from a man he didn’t understand, and he would have to live with the consequences of that choice.

“Sure sounds like our guy,” Jesper whistled. “So why have me chasing after Inferni that don’t exist? Why wasn’t he at the top of our list from the start?”

“The promotion,” Kaz explained. “He has two goals; To nab Nouwen’s job, and silence me. He can’t have one without the other. But I figured him for a lowly grunt. The promotion changes things. It made him hungry.”

“And you made him desperate,” Jesper pointed out.

It wasn’t an entirely unjust accusation. Would Holst ever have enacted such a grand scheme, if he hadn’t needed to shake Kaz off in order to advance his career?

“So why not just burn down the Slat? Get rid of you once and for all?” Wylan suggested. 

Jesper’s eyebrows rose.

“What?” Wylan asked heatedly. “It’s just an idea.”

“Because I’m more useful to Holst as a scapegoat than I am as a dead man. Or I was. I rather think I’ve served my purpose now. But Nouwen’s relatively young. Until recently, he was rather well liked. He might’ve reigned for decades. That timeline wasn’t going to work for Holst. Not with me still extracting favors and threatening exposure.”

“So he turned his greatest weakness into his greatest strength,” Wylan finished for him, his tone thoughtful. “Kind of diabolical, if you think about it.”

“ _ Saints _ , Kaz, you do know how to pick ‘em, don’t you?” Jesper chided, before stuffing the last of his cake in his mouth.

Kaz sighed, turning to Wylan. “I need a favor.”

Wylan frowned. “Another?”

“Actually, three favors.”

Wylan’s response was halfway between a laugh and a hiccup, but it wasn’t a no. Kaz snatched some paper from the desk and started writing.

♠


	9. Steel & Flint

The Siren’s Call looked a damn sight more derelict by moonlight, even with all of Kaz’s set dressing. It was late. The last few hours before dawn, with the bars and taverns long since closed for the night, and the more respectable tourists already tucked up safe in their hotel rooms. When the more energetic revelers had already filtered down into the Barrel, and the Wijnstraat was barren, apart from the occasional Stadwatch patrol.

Kaz waited in the dark, fingers drumming restlessly on the countertop. He didn’t dare risk lighting a lantern. Not until the next pass from the city guard. They were due any second.

Then came the crunch of heavy boots on the cobblestones and chorus of distant voices. Kaz crept towards the window, and peeled back the curtain. There were three of them. Little more than boys, really, playing dress up in grown up clothes. They jeered and jostled each other, making sport of the boring task. He waited for them to pass, for the light from their lanterns to disappear around the next corner.

Then he heard it, the soft knock at the service entrance.

He snapped back the deadbolt, and pulled open the door. Anika stood on the other side, looking annoyed.

“He give you any trouble?” Kaz asked, looking over her shoulder to get a look at the man Keeg and Pim held between them. “What’s with the hood?”

“ _He_ _bit me!”_ Anika snarled, holding up her arm for his inspection. It was, in fairness, an impressive wound. He’d broken the skin. “If he didn’t want to be treated like a rabid dog,” she kicked at the figure, “then he shouldn’t have acted like one.”

“Fair enough.” He let Pim and Keeg drag the man inside, and was about to bolt the door when a figure stepped from the shadows.

“Kaz.”

It was Jesper. Decked out in his Barrel best, the handles of his revolvers gleaming from their holster.

“I thought I told you to stay out of it.”

Jesper shrugged. “Wasn’t my idea.”

Wylan stepped out from behind him, cutting a sharp figure in his mercher black. "It was mine. We're already up to our necks in all this, thanks to you. At least let me make sure that he gets what's coming to him."

There was something in his expression, a steely-eyed intensity Kaz hadn't seen since Jan Van Eck had been thrown in Hellgate. Something dark and hollow behind the eyes.

Wylan could play the part of the innocent to his contemporaries on the Merchant Council. The sensitive young artist, a little out of his depth. They underestimated him, like his father before them.

Kaz wouldn't make that mistake.

"Fine," Kaz relented with a scowl. "You can stay. But it won't be pretty."

"Good," said Wylan, brushing past him. "He doesn't deserve pretty."

Sharing a significant look with Jesper as he passed, Kaz bolted the door shut behind them.

The hood was already off when Kaz rejoined their group on the main floor.

Perhaps the most frightening thing Kaz had realized growing up in Ketterdam, was just how _normal_ a murderer could look. Balanced between the two bruisers, his brown hair falling over an unremarkable face, Willem Holst might've been anyone. He certainly didn't look like a man who took the deaths of some seventy innocent people in stride.

And yet.

Pim and Keeg had untied his hands, but hadn't let go of him. They wouldn't. He still had a gag in his mouth, and Kaz gave the signal for Anika to remove it. She did, but she kept her fingers as far out of biting range as she could.

"Kaz Brekker," he spat. "Who else steals a man from his own lavatory?"

Jesper mimed retching behind him.

“Needs must. You’re a hard man to get alone these days. Very _busy_.”

If he heard the edge in Kaz’s words, then he wilfully ignored it. “So what is it you want now? A roster? A name?”

“A confession.”

“A conf-” He shook his head. “You’re as mad as they say, Brekker. And what, exactly, is it you think I’ve done? Is this about me not giving you the tip about the Crow Club in time? Because I wasn’t involved in all that.”

He was wily, Kaz knew. He never would’ve been able to maintain his marriage for this long if he wasn’t. But he had tells, just like everyone else.

And he could hardly miss the circle of armed teenagers, all watching the show.

“And what’s all this, then? A bloody picnic?” 

“Witnesses.”

“You’re not a man who much likes witnesses, from what I’m told.” Holst’s smile was cruel. Like he still believed he was walking out of there.

“I’m making an exception.” Kaz gestured to Anika, and she stalked over to the nearest barrel. There were ten of them, all in a row. He nodded, and Anika tipped it over. A dark liquid spilled out, black as pitch, sloshing against Holst’s boots.

“What… What is that?” At last, Holst was beginning to sweat.

“Petroleum. From the Shu oil fields. But you ought to know that. Your friend, Jakob Koster, imports the stuff, doesn’t he? They say it’ll replace whale oil soon, so long as we don’t go to war with the Shu.”

He nodded again, and Anika knocked over the second barrel. The fumes were already dizzying.

“Why are you- Why is she doing that?” Holst started to struggle against his bonds, but Keeg and Pim held him tightly.

“Set dressing. You see, we’re staging a play. This here is our stage. You are our principal actor. And the good Captain Nouwen shall play our audience. Would you like to guess the ending?”

“I had nothing to do with them fires!” Holst roared, his ignorance suddenly melting away.

“That’s not what your letter to your wife said.”

Holst had turned almost puce. “What letter? What have you been saying to my wife?!”

Kaz turned to Jesper. “It was a sort of confession, wouldn’t you say?”

“I think we could call it that,” Jesper added helpfully. “Very overwrought. Regretful. I was moved.”

“I don’t think our friend Holst here could’ve written it any better himself, do you?”

“What bloody letter?!” His bonds were straining now, his teeth gritted with the effort.

“We took the liberty. I was sure you wouldn’t mind. After everything you’ve done to keep her on the hook all these years, Mrs Holst really did deserve the truth.”

And thanks to Guus’s prodigious talents, no one would ever have to know Holst hadn’t authored it himself.

“What have you done?! You miserable little skiv! I’ll kill you!”

He looked like he wanted to try. He ought to have just done that in the first place. Eliminated Kaz and waited for the stress of the job to kill Nouwen the old fashioned way. Saved everyone a great deal of heartache.

“Not if I kill you first.” Kaz nodded again, and Anika tipped over the next barrel. Then the next.

Holst was shaking now, a tornado of helpless rage. “You wouldn’t. Your own gambling hall. It’s a bluff. It’s all a bluff!”

That was the problem with men like Holst. Like Van Eck. Men who thought that just because they wanted something, it was theirs for the taking. They were little better than cutpurses. But cutpurses were children, who still hadn’t learned to control their impulses.

Kaz had meant to kill Pekka Rollins, and yet Pekka still lived.

He wanted Inej to stay in Ketterdam, but he’d gifted her with the very means to sail away from him.

That was why Kaz would always be the better thief. It wasn’t about getting what you wanted, at any cost. It was about taking what you could get. The better you were, the more you got. But plans could fail, and people could surprise you. Sometimes, you found yourself cornered.

Sometimes, the only way out was with a bang.

After the explosion at the White Rose and the Anvil the year before, he’d insured his properties against unnatural risk. His opening might be delayed, but he’d recoup most of his losses. Perhaps he’d even rebrand her, The Phoenix. She would stand as a symbol of the renewed Ketterdam, rising from the ashes. The poem practically wrote itself. 

And who would ever suspect that Kaz Brekker, Bastard of the Barrel and notorious miser, would burn down his own gambling den? No one. Not when one of Nouwen’s own men was found on the premises. When he’d left a letter on his wife’s pillow, in his own hand, confessing everything. When a search of his attic would uncover a plethora of incriminating materials.

This was Ketterdam. There would be no way to keep that quiet once it got out.

Kaz moved in closer, until their faces were level. He let the man watch as he pulled the steel and flint from his pocket. “Confess.”

A match would’ve done the same, but there was something particularly satisfying about seeing the reflection of the sparks in Holst’s eyes. “Confess, or die how they died. Screaming. Trapped. Burning.”

“Stop it, STOP IT! Alright, I did it. I burned down the bloody Herengracht. Are you happy now?” 

“And the Pearl Palace?” Anika cut in.

“And the Pearl Palace and the Lucky Star. You got me. Now will you let me go?”

Kaz turned to Wylan. “If you mean to help-”

“I do.”

Kaz nodded. “Then now might be a good time to run and find the nearest patrol. Tell them you smell smoke. He has to be at least somewhat recognizable when they find the body.”

Holst blanched. “But I confessed!” he shouted. “You have to let me go!”

Kaz rested a hand against his chin, glancing at Jesper. “Did I say anything about letting him go?”

“I don’t remember anything about that.” 

“No! NO! I’ll do anything. Anything! Please?! I’m a good man!”

He’d heard it before. Always with that same sick desperation. Kaz could tolerate a liar. He could tolerate a thief. But a man who lied to himself?

“Well then,” Kaz said, flint striking against steel. “I guess that makes you the last good man in Ketterdam.” 

THE END.

♠


End file.
